Alas, there is a Bonjour Tristesse and A Certain Smile to all this. The old clubs are dying. It is auld lang syne to the oak-paneled taproom, but I have no lively expectation that I will be listened to. What chance has an official Cassandra against such stubbornness, sentiment, tradition and the old club tie? It is only when the tax collector, with his ax, and the realtor, with his flattering offer to the stockholders, accost the next generation that the club will sell and move farther out—or crumble with a great loss to everybody.